Survivor
by bourbon
Summary: Post-Intruded. What if Jordan weren't telling the whole truth? And what if her intruder struck again? Sorta WJ. Note rating for subject matter and adult situations. COMPLETE
1. No Dreams

_I loved the episode "Intruded," but I thought it ended a ended a bit too tidily. Such are the limitations of a one-hour episode, but I wanted to explore the issue a little bit more._

_Violence against women is a very important issue. I'm far from an expert on the subject, but I've tried to do some research, and I hope I've handled it in a truthful and non-exploitative way. _

_I'm really a much more cheerful person than my fanfic might suggest! Honestly! _

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

_No dreams._

She opened her eyes one at a time and stretched. A slow, hopeful smile spread across her face. She looked around her apartment, brightened by the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the overhead light that had remained on all night.

_No dreams._

It had been a month since...since her apartment had been broken into. For the first time, her sleep had not been broken by the images. The glint of the knife, the hiss of his voice, the feel of his hands...

_No dreams, _she repeated to herself silently. It was over. Sometimes when you ignore things, they really _do_ go away. No need for countless hours with some shrink with an Ivy League diploma, tossing around a bunch of big words from the DSM-IV.

Time and a nice chat with Stiles had done the trick. She found herself singing in the shower as she got ready for work, and the light mood carried her through as she dressed and drove into work.

It was finally over.

And then there was the elevator ride up to her office.

She took a deep breath and looked over her shoulder. The hallway behind her was empty. She was alone.

She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and pressed the UP button.

_Come on come on come on..._she whispered under her breath. The elevator doors opened with a "ping." She exhaled with relief and stepped inside the empty car.

She slumped against the wall and leaned her head back, eyes closed. Safe. She was safe. It had become kind of a morning ritual for her. Her throat would close and her heart would begin to pound as she walked from the parking structure into the building toward the elevator.

The doors began to shut.

"Wait! Hold the elevator!" Her eyes snapped open. She stretched forward and jabbed frantically at the "Close Door" button with her knuckle. _He's not going to make it,_ she thought hopefully.

Then a hand slipped inside the car and pushed the door open. A man stepped inside. A stranger. He was 30, maybe. Wearing a pair of worker's coveralls and some kind of photo ID. That didn't mean anything. Anyone could get a fake ID like that.

Jordan retreated into the corner. The man nodded at her and turned his back. He reached his hand up to the control panel and seemed to hesitate.

Jordan felt her throat begin to close. _He's going to hit the "Emergency Stop" button_. _I know it. Then I'll be stuck inside here with him._

Finally, he pressed one of the buttons. Jordan's hands drew up into fists. She meant to make a run for it before the doors closed, but her feet had turned to cement. The elevator doors slid shut and began to make an agonizingly slow trip upwards.

He turned once during the climb, just a glance over his shoulder. He looked at her blankly for a moment and faced front again with his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes straight ahead.

Jordan's eyes flew up to the display panel above the elevator doors, watching as each floor number became illuminated in turn..._2...3...4._ Her eyes fell onto the man's back.

_He's not looking at the display. Everyone looks at the display. What's wrong with him? There's something wrong._

Her heart began to pound.

Finally, the elevator jerked to a halt and the doors slid open again. The man stood for a moment, then turned as he stepped out into the hall.

"Have a good day," he muttered blandly.

She blinked once or twice then raised a limp hand. The doors closed then, and she crumpled to the floor, her face buried in her open palms.

XXXXXXX

When the doors opened again, she stood in the center of the car, whistling the song that had been running through her head since her morning shower.

Lily was there leafing through a file.

"Morning, Lily," Jordan said brightly and strode down the hallway to her office.

"Hey, Jordan," Lily looked up from her file. "_You're_ in a good mood."

"It's a good day, Lily," she called over her shoulder. "A _great_ day."

_No dreams. _ _It's over. It's over._ _It's over._

So what if she were still a little..._jumpy? _So what if she still couldn't quite look Woody in the eye? So what?

And of course, the thing with the elevator. So what? It was irrational, this new fear of elevators and parking structures and her own darkened apartment. But so what? Wasn't everyone entitled to their own eccentricities and weird phobias?

"Hey, Jordan!" It was Woody's voice coming from behind her. Her shoulders stiffened. She pretended not to hear.

"Jordan, wait up!" She quickened her steps, but it was too late. She could hear him jogging down the hallway towards her. She had no choice but to stop.

"Woody. Hi." She flashed him what she hoped was a convincing smile. Her eyes fell onto the tile floor.

"Hey, how are you? I haven't talked to you since I gave you your mother's locket back. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure." She shrugged. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"No reason. Just asking," he said. "I know what you went through can be really hard."

"What do you mean? _What I went through?_" She snapped.

"You know. Getting your apartment broken into like that. Having your mother's locket stolen. Thank God you were at work when it happened, right?"

She swallowed hard. "Yeah. Thank God." She began to walk again, and he followed after her.

"Hey, you want to get together this weekend? Maybe go dancing again?"

"I don't think so, Woody. I gotta take a pass this time." She escaped into her office. He was still there though, standing in the doorway, sipping nonchalantly at his coffee.

"Well, if you change your mind..." he said lightly.

"I'll let you know."

He gave her a casual wave and started to go. "You sure you're okay, Jordan? I mean...this isn't about what happened the last time we went out together, is it? I'm sorry I made a pass at you, but it won't happen again. Promise."

She waved her hands in front of her wearily. "It's not about that, Woody. Everything's fine. Perfect."

"Well. Okay." He headed out into the hall but returned again, leaning his head around the corner of the doorway. "Oh, hey. I don't know if you read this morning's paper, but a burglar isn't the only problem in Charlestown. A woman was attacked in her apartment just a few blocks from your place. Stay safe, Jordan."

He was gone, then, leaving her to sit frozen at her desk staring with a rising panic at the spot in her doorway where he had stood.

She rose from her desk and stumbled into the breakroom. As usual, there was an abandoned newspaper on the table. Her hands shook as she tore frantically through the paper.

There it was on page 12, a small item buried in the police blotter:

_"A 24 year old woman was reportedly raped in her Charlestown apartment on Sunday night. The victim reports that the assailant broke into her apartment at approximately 10:00PM. He is described as a Caucasian male of indeterminate age. He wore a ski mask during the attack and used a knife to threaten the victim."_

The newspaper slipped from her hands and fell onto the floor.

It wasn't over.


	2. Protecting Jordan

The phone rang in his office, and he picked it up on the first ring.

"Hoyt."

There was a short pause, and then she spoke. "Woody, it's me. Jordan."

"Hey" he said with a light, casual laugh. "I don't hear from you for weeks, then it's twice in one day. What's up"

"That attack in Charlestown. Do you know anything more about it" Her voice was taut.

"No, not much more than what was in the paper. The guy broke into her apartment while she was asleep. She woke up, and he was standing beside the bed with a knife, wearing a ski mask. Told her to get undressed while he watched. Then...well. You know the rest" he said with the sad but detached tone that was so frequent in their line of work.

There was another silence. Longer this time.

"Jordan? You there"

"...Yeah." She finally said. There was something in her voice. A heaviness.

"Jordan, are you okay? This thing has really gotten you rattled, hasn't it? Look, I know you've probably been a little jumpy since your place was broken into, but I wouldn't worry too much. I mean, what are the odds of this guy hitting your building? Lightning doesn't strike twice. Just lock your doors and make sure..."

"I'm _fine_." The sharp edge of her voice cut through his speech. "Stop worrying about me."

He almost responded. _Sorry. No can do, Jordan._ Instead, he left an empty space. She spoke again.

"I was just curious, that's all. Look, I gotta go."

"Jordan, wait..." But she was gone. He set the phone back in its cradle and stared out into the hallway.

How could he not worry about Jordan? He considered it his job. With Max off on his late-life crisis and Garret wrapped up in his own drama with Renee Walcott, who else was there? As much as she denied it, she needed someone. Who didn't?

Something wasn't right. This wasn't just her usual evasiveness or one of her frequent mood swings. He was more than happy to play the role of Jordan Cavanaugh's protector, and she needed him now. He would protect her.


	3. Halloween Fright

There was another rape.

Just two blocks away this time. The item was no longer buried in the police blotter.

Then another. Front page news this time. A police source was quoted as saying that he feared a serial rapist was on the loose in Charlestown. Well, no kidding.

Maybe it wasn't the same guy who broke into her place, she tried to convince herself. But each time she read a description of the attack...the knife, the ski mask, she knew. The dreams had returned, and she saw those things all too clearly each night when she could no longer fight off sleep.

She stood at her desk, back to the door reading the front page. "Charlestown Rapist Strikes Again" the headline screamed. She was waiting for them to think up some name for the attacker: the Masked Madman or the Ski Mask Striker. Something clever and catchy to sell newspapers.

It was her way: to fight off her feelings with dark humor. She had a pocketful of witty quips at the ready anytime someone confronted her with the inevitable"Jordan, are you okay" She would toss of a one-liner, something more clever than her old standby"I'm fine."

She wasn't, of course, fine, but no one else need know that.

She had read the brief but lurid article through for the third time. She wasn't been aware that someone had entered her office until she felt something sharp pressing into the small of her back. And then a voice, unfamiliar, gravelly, with a southern twang:

"Don't move a muscle, little lady."

She froze for a nanosecond. Then her arm jerked backwards, landing her elbow into the intruder's gut. There was a pained yelp from behind her, and the sound of the intruder stumbling backwards.

She spun around. It was a man, doubled over in pain on her office loveseat. He had a bandana covering his face and a gun in one hand.

She lunged forward. He threw up his empty hand and pulled the bandana down with the other.

"Jordan, for the loved of God, put that thing down" It was Nigel. She stood mutely. He was lying there dressed as a cowboy, toy gun, bandana and all. She looked up at her raised hand, and only then realized that she had somehow grabbed the letter opener from her desk and had been about to bring it down to the center of Nigel's chest.

"Nigel..." It was all she could manage to saw. "What..."

"It's Halloween, Jordan! It was just my homage to the American West. Billy the Kid, Jesse James. You know"

She still stood, immobile, with the letter opener gripped in her hand.

"Come on, Jordan! Joke's over. Put it down"

She let the opener fall to the floor with a clatter.

"I'm sorry, Nigel. You scared me."

"Well, consider it repaid in spades"

Lily appeared in her doorway. She was wearing a white angora sweater and a pair of bunny ears. Halloween. Jordan had forgotten all about it.

"What's going on? Nigel, are you okay? What happened"

"Jordan here was about to perform a live autopsy on me with her letter opener."

Lily looked at her questioningly. Jordan shrugged numbly. "He scared me" she repeated.

"Well, come on, Wyatt Earp. That'll learn you." Lily helped Nigel up, his arm still wrapped protectively around his solar plexus.

Lily turned back to Jordan as she and Nigel limped from her office. "Are you okay, Jordan"

She was still standing there, staring into some distant space. There was no clever comeback. She nodded slowly. "I'm fine." And then she smiled a winning smile and winked.

"Sorry about that, Nige. I guess I forgot to tell you that this Halloween, I'm going as Letter-opener-wielding Crazy M.E." She managed a chuckle, but it hadn't come out as funny as she intended it.

She didn't notice the looks of concern that Nigel and Lily traded between themselves as she stooped to pick up her opener.

She saw them out with a cheery apology and goodbye, but shut the door as soon as they rounded the corner.

She sat at her desk for a long while, taking slow, deep breaths. Finally, she picked up the telephone and dialed. She wasn't afraid. She wasn't going to let this thing take over her life. She'd show them.

"Woody? It's Jordan. I was wondering...would you like to get together tomorrow? I thought maybe dancing. We had such a great time last time...Great! Pick me up at eight."

She closed her eyes and repeated silently:

_I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine._


	4. I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can

It was a bright, loud, smoky dance club with a great, old-style big band. Conversation was out of the question. It was the perfect place.

"Great! A swing band!" He said with a smile when they stepped inside. "I thought these places were so, like, 1996."

"Some things never go out of style, farmboy." She pulled him down onto the dance floor by his tie, and they launched into a jitterbug.

They didn't sit a single one out. He had never seen her like this. She seemed somehow possessed. They were exhausted before long; her camisole top was soaked through to the skin, but she danced on. He tried to lure her to one of the tables that ringed the dance floor, but she always pulled him back out for more.

Finally, there was a slow number. She pulled him to her, beckoning him with a crook of her finger.

She ran her fingers up his neck and into his hair. One leg slipped between his, and she grinded against him, humming along with the band in her throaty alto.

"Do you like this?" she whispered, her lips against his ear.

"Isn't it obvious?" His voice was dark and husky.

"Maybe we should go, then," she said, cool and alluring.

Before he could respond, she had his hand. They were out into the November chill, and she leaned against him for warmth.

"It's cold," she purred. He slipped his arm around her and drew her closer. This wasn't like Jordan. Still, there was more than a suggestion in her voice, and he wasn't going to question things. Not after waiting for this moment for so long.

So, he didn't hesitate when she asked him inside after he saw her to her door.

"Are you sure?"

The corner of her lip curled up seductively. She answered by pulling him inside her apartment and running her hand down his chest and hooking her fingers into the waistband of his pants. She leaned forward then and kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

She backed away from him then, and moved toward her bed. His heart began to race.

"Jordan? Are you sure you're sure about this?"

She nodded and pulled her top over her head.

God, she was beautiful. He tugged at his tie and kicked his shoes off. She had slipped under her sheets, and he joined her there, his clothes lying in a path across the floor.

"Jordan..." he started, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips and pulled her down to him. He kissed her mouth and her neck and laid a trail of kisses across her collarbone. He hadn't noticed that she had gone rigid.

"Woody, stop." Her voice was small and childlike.

"What's that, Jordan?" he barely responded. He ran his mouth across her shoulder and down her arm.

"Stop."

"Am I hurting you?" he muttered.

"STOP! I SAID STOP! STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!" She was clawing at him then, digging her nails into his bare back and pulling at his hair.

"Ow! Jesus, Jordan! What's wrong with you?" He sprang from the bed. Jordan had pulled herself into the far corner. Her sweat-soaked hair was clinging to her ashen face.

"Just go!"

"_What_?" he asked in disbelief.

"Go! Just go!"

He shook his head in frustration. "Fine, Jordan. _Fine_."

He pulled his pants and shirt on angrily, stuffing his tie and his socks into his pocket. "You know, _you _asked me up here, Jordan. You string me along for three years, and then you pull this crap."

"Get out!"

"Don't worry, Jordan, I'm gone." He slammed the door behind him.

She sat frozen for a moment before sprinting into the bathroom shower. She set the shower as hot as she could stand it, and stood there for a long while, letting the stream whip her clean.


	5. The Autopsy

So, it was over between them, whatever "it" had been. He didn't call. She didn't know why she thought he might.

It was harder as days went by to force a smile and a witty one-liner. She still slept with the lights burning all hours. It helped to be out of her apartment, in bright, public places.

She worked as much as she could and was eager to come in when Bug called her on her day off. There had been a pile-up on I-95 with multiple fatalities, and they needed someone to pick up the slack and cover other autopsies.

"You have something for me?" she said as she entered the autopsy room. Bug and Nigel worked on the other side of the room.

"Yeah, thanks, Jordan. She's right there next to you," Bug said without looking up from his work. "Det. Carver put a rush order on that one."

There was a woman on an autopsy table right inside the door. Jordan picked up the file and scanned the first page. "Kathy Gerrity. Age 32. What have we got?"

"Give you one guess what killed her," Nigel said grimly.

Jordan glanced down at the body. There was a long slash running across her throat. "Yow. That's a nasty piece of business."

"Yeah. Looks like the Charlestown Rapist is no longer the Charlestown Rapist."

Jordan's head snapped up. "What was that?"

"Didn't you hear?" Bug continued. "He's stepped up his sick little game. He killed someone this time."

Her eyes fell back down onto the lifeless form on the table. She was dead. She had not been lucky. Could Jordan have saved her somehow?

Jordan's chest was tightening. Sweat beads immediately popped onto her forehead, forming a stinging pool in her eyes. "I can't...breathe..." she huffed helplessly.

"What's that, luv?"

"I can't...breathe...I...can't..."

She was aware that Nigel and Bug were now staring at her curiously from across the room.

"Are you okay, Jordan?"

"I can't. I can't." She staggered backwards, her arms flailing wildly for balance. The instrument tray fell with a crash to the floor. "I can't."

She turned and stumbled into the hallway.

It was Lily who later found in her in the locker room. Jordan had turned the shower on, but had not quite made it in. She was on the floor by the sinks curled into a ball with her knees pulled tightly to her chest.

XXXXX

Forty-five minutes later, after she had showered and changed into a fresh pair of scrubs, she found herself summoned to the conference room.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked casually as she stuck her head in the door.

"Ah, Jordan." Dr. Stiles was sitting at the conference room table and motioned to the seat across from him. "Yes. Please have a seat. Any idea why I wanted to see you?"

"You know me. Always getting called to the principal's office."

"Care to hazard a guess on what you did to earn this particular detention?"

"Well, there was that little incident where I almost disemboweled a colleague with my letter opener. I guess that kind of thing is sort of frowned on in the workplace." She smirked.

"There's that..."

He left a silence and leaned back in his chair. She squirmed in her seat, cleared her throat and rapped her fingers against the table.

"Hey, it was an accident," she reassured him.

"Freud would have said there are no accidents."

"He also said sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

Stiles narrowed his eyes and nodded thoughtfully. "Anything else in recent memory?"

She shrugged and laughed. "Ya got me, doc."

He leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. "As much as I enjoy these verbal sallies, Jordan, I think our time together would be better served by cutting to the proverbial chase. You walked out of an autopsy this morning."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Hey, I don't know. I just froze. It happens to everybody. No biggie."

"I'm willing to bet that's true. It probably does happen to everyone in your line of work at one time or another in the span of a career. But I'm also willing to bet it doesn't happen without reason."

"So?"

"So...when it happens, it suggests that there's something very _personal_ about the autopsy that makes it impossible to perform. Perhaps it's the death of a child. Perhaps it is an old man that reminds someone of a beloved grandfather." He paused. " What was it for you, Jordan?"

"Nothing! It was just a homicide! I've done hundreds of homicides since my mother was killed."

"This isn't about your mother for once. What was it about Kathy Gerrity?"

Her face fell, and she looked away. Stiles went on, slowly.

"Have you handled a murder-rape since your apartment was broken into, Jordan?"

"No."

"Something tells me that when we spoke of this before, you weren't lying. But you weren't telling me the whole truth, either. Were you?"

She looked down at the table top. "No. No, I wasn't."

XXXXXXX

Later, after she finally returned to her apartment, exhausted, she picked up the phone and dialed.

"Det. Carver."

"Lois, it's me. Jordan."

"_Jah-_dan! What can I do for you?"

_Jah-_dan. She always felt comfortable talking to Lois Carver. Perhaps it was because her thick accent always reminded Jordan of Max. It had been so long since she talked to him, she had almost forgotten what he sounded like, but Jordan could hear echoes of him in the detective's speech.

"I hear you're handling the Charlestown Murder-Rape."

"Yeah..."

"I have some information for you." The words were difficult. "We need to talk."


	6. The Truth Comes Out

Santana came into the breakroom as Woody retrieved a ham and cheese sandwich from the vending machine.

"Hey, Woody. I just saw your girlfriend," she said, refilling her coffee cup for the umpteenth time of the day.

"Girlfriend?"

"Long brown hair? I met her once before."

His heart fluttered a bit. He could barely think of Jordan as his girlfriend anymore, but he wasn't quite ready to let go, despite the debacle of the previous week.

"Jordan's here?" He tossed his sandwich into the trash. "She must've come by to ask if I wanted to go to lunch."

"I don't think so. I just saw her going into Interview Room A with Lois Carver."

Curious. He cocked his head. "Oh. Thanks. They must be working on a case together," he said as if to convince himself. Truth was, he wasn't quite sure why Jordan would be with Lois Carver in one of the interview rooms.

He mumbled a quick goodbye to Santana and strode down the hall. He hesitated for a moment before stepping into the observation room next to Interview Room A. Perhaps it was just a cop's instinct, but there was a sickening sense of foreboding building in his gut.

He could see Jordan and Carver through the two-way mirror. Carver had her back to the mirror, and Jordan sat across from her. She held a ball of kleenex between her hands. She was picking at them anxiously, letting shards of white tissue flutter to the floor. She was wearing one of of those shapeless black sweaters she had taken to wearing lately, except for the siren-red camisole she'd worn on their date the week before.

Lois was speaking. He strained to hear.

"So, you don't remember if you used your key to get in that night?"

It was about the burglary at Jordan's place the month or so before, Woody realized. So, why was Jordan talking to a homicide detective?

"No, I don't remember." Jordan's voice was strained.

"OK. When did you notice that something was wrong, Jordan?"

Jordan looked away at the wall. "When I saw his reflection through the glass wall."

Woody froze. Jordan had lied to him. She had told him that the break-in had happened when she was at work. This did not bode well. He thought for a moment he should run and leave what was about to be said forever unknown to him. But he stayed.

"What did he look like, Jordan? Did you see him?"

"He was wearing a ski mask."

_Ski mask._ The words sliced into him. Ski mask. Like the other attacks. It made sense now. That's why she had lied. He shut his eyes tight.

_Oh, God, not Jordan._

Lois went on. "What happened then?"

"He..." Jordan stopped for a moment. Her head dropped. "He was on me. He had a knife. He told me take my clothes off. So, I did. Then he ransacked my place."

"What did _you_ do, Jordan?"

"I just stood there. I was terrified! He had a knife!" Jordan's voice had begun to tremble. Lois reached over and gave her wrist a squeeze.

"It's okay, Jordan. Take your time."

There was a glass of water there on the table. She sipped it and wiped at her eyes with a trembling hand.

"Then he turned to me. He had the knife. He told me to sit on the bed."

Inside the observation room, Woody felt the sick feeling rise in his gut. He feared the inevitability of what Jordan was about to say.

"What then? Go on," Det. Carver prodded gently.

"He put the knife to my throat. He told me he would kill me if I screamed. He put his hands on me." Woody hands flew up reflexively, as if to clamp out the sound of her words. "I was frozen. I couldn't move. He was talking to me the whole time. Telling me what he was going to do to me. It was horrible, the things he said." She choked for a moment on her own words.

"And?"

"That's when I fought back. I wasn't going to let him to that to me. We struggled. I cut my hand. And then he was gone."

The observation room had suddenly grown unbearably hot and arid. He staggered out of the room then and stormed blindly down the hallway before stopping, turning, taking a few steps in the other direction, then turning back again.

The door to the interview room opened then, and Lois and Jordan exited into the hallway. They stood together for a moment; Jordan nodded solemnly while Lois spoke. Then, Lois placed a sympathetic hand on Jordan's shoulder and headed in the opposite direction.

Jordan looked up then and saw Woody, perched casually on the edge of a desk at the end of the hallway. Their gazes locked, and no one moved for a moment.

Finally, Jordan gave a weak smile and headed toward him. She was the first to speak.

"Hey, Woody. I was just, uh, going over an old case with Det. Carver."

Woody nodded. "Good to see you, Jordan."

"Yeah. Listen." She looked down at her feet awkwardly. "I want to apologize about the other night..."

His hand flew up. "It's okay, Jordan. Really. No need to apologize. I guess we did move things a little too fast."

"Ok. Well. I guess I'd better be heading back to work." She turned to go.

"Jordan! You want me to walk you to your car?" He jumped from the desk.

"No. It's okay, Woody. It's broad daylight, and the place is crawling with cops." She managed a small smile and hurried down the hallway.

"Okay, then." He called to her back. "Be safe, Jordan." She was gone.

The competing emotions of pain and rage roiled inside of him. His heart ached for Jordan, and he wanted to run after her, pull her to him, and tell her he knew everything. But he wouldn't. He couldn't.

And then...he hadn't been able to save Jordan. It was his job, and he had failed. Now, she was going through untold pain that he couldn't heal.

He paced restlessly, not knowing what to do with his uncoiling rage. Finally, he turned a planted a clenched fist into the wall.

He drew back his hand, blood running from the skinless knuckles, and pulled it to his chest. He turned then to see Santana standing next to him, her mouth a horrified, round "O."

XXXXX

"You could have shattered every bone in your hand, you know." Santana tended to his injured hand in the break room.

"Thereby ending my career as a concert pianist," he mumbled sarcastically.

"Thereby ending your career as a Boston cop," she shot back. "You want to tell me what that was about?"

"No."

She stood up from the chair where she had bandaged Woody's hand. "Fine. You're angry. Most of us here are angry about something, everything. I think that's why we're cops. Just don't let it get the best of you, Hoyt."

"Mind your own business, rookie," he hissed before grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.

"Where are you going, Woody?"

He turned before storming from the break room. "I'm going to go do Carver's job for her."


	7. On the Trail

_Thanks to the those of you who have RRed. It's not like my usual stuff, but it's nice that at least a few of you are reading it. _

_OT - I'm not sure I like the new formatting here at do you? I'm still trying to fix some weird things that happened with punctuation marks in a previous upload. Sorry about that._

_Anyway, here's Ch. 7. We see some of Woody's violent streak that has been hinted at in a few episodes this season._

_Thanks for reading._

_XXXXXXXXXXXXX_

"I already told the lady detective. I don't know nothing." Woody stood with the old homeless man in the alley next to Kathy Gerrity's building.

"Nothing, huh?" Woody reached into his pocket. "Maybe some of my friends can jog your memory."

He pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off the top one. The old man held up his hand.

"Keep your money. I said I don't know nothing." The old man looked up at Woody with mock sincerity. "Besides, I got principles. I ain't no jabberer."

He laughed a high, wheezy laugh that sounded like a death rattle. _Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee._

Woody shuddered. _Jabberer._ An old jailhouse word. He wasn't mentally ill or a junkie. He was on the street because he was an ex-con whose crime had been such that he'd been rejected by every corner of society. He was a pervert.

"So, Milton, was it?" Woody began smoothly. "Sure I can't grease the wheels a little?"

Milton shrugged. "Not for twenty bucks. Now, buy me a house, and maybe I'll spill!' He threw his head back. _Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee._

Woody slipped the money back in his pocket. "Well, Milton, I can't buy you a house, but I think I can find you a free bed for a few nights, and I'm not talking about a flea bag hotel or a homeless shelter."

The old man stopped mid-wheeze and narrowed his eyes. "You kidding me?"

Woody flashed his best Kewaunee grin. "Would I kid?"

Milton rocked back on his heels. "Go on."

"Clean bed. Full body massage."

"Yeah..."

"Every day. _Sponge bath." _Woody turned the words over lasciviously.

_"Sponge bath..." _the old man tittered.

"Three hot squares a day. Served by some of the loveliest ladies in the city of Boston."

Milton's eyes widened. "I'll bite!"

"Yeah, I just bet you will." Woody grabbed Milton by the arm, spun him around and slammed him face first into the brick wall behind him. "Too bad those meals will be served to you in an IV bag over at Boston General ICU."

"Oww!" the old man whined. "You're hurting me!"

"My guess is you've heard those words before, Milton. Tell me. Was it women? Or do you get your jollies with little girls. Or boys?"

"Hey, I done my time!" Woody pulled the old man's arm tighter. "OK! OK! I'll talk!" Woody spun him back around and pinned him to the wall. "I seen her around." He looked out onto the sidewalk where Kathy Gerrity had waited for the bus each morning. "She was stuck up, that one. Wouldn't give me the time of day."

"Talk, Milton."

"The morning she got killed, there was a repair van. HVAC. I don't know...something Italian. Lorenzo HVC or something. The driver was this young kid. I remember him 'cause he had this bright red hair. Kind of freaky looking. Later that night, I seen him again. I remembered him 'cause of his hair. You could tell even though it was dark. Only he didn't have the van this time. He comes running out of the building about 45 minutes later. That's all I know. That's all I seen. I swear on my mother's grave!"

Woody finally released the old man's arm. He clutched it protectively to his chest. Woody turned and walked out of the alley. Milton called out after him.

"Hey! _Hey!_ I'm going sue the police, you hear me? I think you mighta broke something! _Hey! _I'm a law abiding citizen! I'm calling Internal Affairs and gonna report you!"

Woody turned. "Oh, yeah? What's my name?"

The old man blinked his watery eyes. His face dropped, and he shuffled back into the dark alley.

Woody calmly got into his car and returned to the precinct.


	8. Telling Woody

She stood in front of his door for at least ten minutes before knocking. A few times, she had turned and headed for the stairs. Then she would stop, recall what Dr. Brady had said, screw up her courage and head back to his door.

Jordan liked Dr. Maggie Brady. Dr. Stiles had recommended her. She specialized in treating victims of sexual assault. She was warm and funny, and she reminded Jordan of what she, herself, might have been like if her life had gone in a slightly different direction. Jordan believed she just might have to change her opinion of headshrinkers.

"Have you told the man in your life? The detective?" Dr. Brady asked at their last session.

Jordan shook her head. "No. And I wouldn't call him the man in my life."

Dr. Brady looked back at her with an arched eyebrow. "You _did _end up in bed with him last week."

"Yes, and what a resounding success _that _turned out to be." There was a silence. Jordan finally spoke. "So...are you saying that I should tell him?"

"That's up to you, Jordan." Jordan looked down and picked distractedly at a loose thread on her shirt. Dr. Brady went on after a beat. "My impression is that he cares about you very much and that he probably already knows something is wrong."

So, she stood now, rapping softly at his door. She swallowed hard when he answered.

"Hi...I was just in the neighborhood. Driving around your block for the past fifteen minutes." She laughed a small, nervous laugh. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Sure, Jordan."

She suddenly noticed his hand. "Hey, what did you do there?" She caught his hand in hers. It occurred to her, sadly, that this was as much physical contact as she could bear right now. She ran a finger gently across his bandaged knuckles.

"Oh, that? Nothing. I fell. Come on in."

She headed in, still not knowing where to start. He followed her and went to the kitchen area.

"So, you want something to drink? Some wine?"

She shook her head. "No. Nothing for me. Look...this is hard, so I'm just going to say it." He froze behind the kitchen island, a wine glass in each hand. "Please don't flip out. I need you to just sit and be calm while I talk."

He put the glasses on the counter and went slowly to the sofa with a kind of pained resignation. Jordan knew that Dr. Brady was right. He suspected something.

She stood in front of him, pacing in small, restless circles. She stopped finally, took a breath, and launched in.

"I lied to you. Before. When I said I was at work when the guy broke into my place. I wasn't. I was home."

He looked down at the floor, and any doubts Jordan had were erased. He knew. He already knew.

"Oh, God...you know. How did you know?"

"I found out at work," he said, unable to tell her the whole truth.

"Lois..."

"No! She didn't say a word to me. Honestly. But...you knew I was bound to find out anyway." She nodded and looked away in shame. "I just wish you'd told me before. I could have..."

He stopped and shrugged helplessly.

"I know. I know. I keep going over and over it in my mind. But I felt so ashamed." The words were agonizing. She knew, rationally, that she had nothing to be ashamed of. But there was nothing rational about what had happened to her and nothing rational about they way she felt now. "And I thought since I wasn't actually raped, that I didn't have a right to feel this way."

"Jordan, assault is crime, too..."

She cut him off. "I know that now. Of course I know that. But..."

There was nothing to say. She finally sat next to him on the sofa. He put a comforting hand on her back but withdrew it quickly. There was a long pause.

She could not stand to look at him. When she finally turned, he had retreated into an angry silence, elbows on knees, staring at the blank wall in front of them.

"Don't worry, Jordan. We'll get the guy who did this to you." He was speaking in slow, measured tones, as if he were trying very hard to remain calm.

"We?"

He turned to her then. "I'll do everything I can, Jordan..."

"No. No." She shook her head rapidly. "Please. Let Lois handle this."

He looked back at her with stunned eyes.

"Jordan, I'm a homicide detective! You can't expect me to leave this alone!"

"Please, Woody. Please. I can't have you involved in this."

"Why not?"

She wasn't sure she could adequately explain without revealing too much of herself. Because she didn't want him to start looking at her with a cop's look of detached pity. Because she had feelings for him, and she couldn't bear the man she was falling in love with hearing the sordid details of her attack over and over.

"Please. For me."

She saw his jaw tighten, and he leapt up from the sofa. "Okay. For you."

She rose, then. "Thank you." The brief silence grew uncomfortable, and she headed toward the door. "I should go..."

She had her hand on the doorknob when he finally spoke.

"This doesn't change things, Jordan. The way I feel about you."

She could not turn to face him for the tears that had sprung to her eyes. She nodded and headed quickly to her car.


	9. On the Trail II

He wanted to honor Jordan's wishes; he really did.

He would discreetly excuse himself from the break room or the water cooler circle when the subject of the Charlestown Killer-Rapist would come up, and he would refrain from any conjecture when asked what the division's next move should be.

But Jordan had come in that day to see Lois Carver, and they exchanged a few awkward words. Then he overheard a cluster of detectives huddled around the coffee maker, and their banter began to disintegrate into the basest terms to describe what the attacker's victims had gone through. He found himself biting his lip so hard he drew blood.

"I'm outta here," he mumbled to Santana before heading out the door.

"Hoyt! Where are you going?" Santana followed after him. "Just let it go, Woody."

"Did you hear what they were saying? It makes me sick." He kept moving down the hall.

"Look, Hoyt." Santana reached out to stop him. "I know why this case is making you insane," she said under her breath. She had already heard the rumors about Jordan. "But you can't let those jerks get to you like this."

His eyes fell to the floor. "Every time I close my eyes, I see it. I see that _animal_ with her. Touching her. Saying those things." He raised his head up, and Santana looked away in embarrassment. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. "Cover for me, Santana."

"Cover for you? What?"

"I've got something I've got to take care of."

"I don't know, Woody. I think you should just leave this to Carver. She can handle it."

"C'mon, Santana. I thought you were a risk-taker. A rule-breaker."

"Don't do it, Woody. You're too close to it." She shook her head.

He turned finally and looked at her beseechingly. "I've gotta do this. I swear this is the last time. Just this once, and I'll turn everything I know over to Carver. But I've gotta do this."

"Where are you going?"

"Alonzo HVAC. It's in the book. I've got a few questions about one of their employees."

She searched his face for a moment. "All right. But if you're not back in 45 minutes, I'm gonna have 'em haul your ass in."

Santana watched him go with the uneasy feeling that she had just made a very bad decision.

XXXXXX

"I'm not in trouble or anything, am I?" Joe Alonzo asked Woody as he flashed his badge. They stood in the front of Alonzo's dingy downtown shop.

"No, Mr. Alonzo. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about an employee of yours. A red-haired kid."

Alonzo shut his eyes and nodded knowingly. "That'd be Brian Weems."

"Brian Weems? What can you tell me about him?"

Alonzo exhaled with exasperation. "I only hired him because his uncle's an old army buddy of mine. I don't like to hire ex-cons."

Woody's ears pricked up. _Bingo._

"Ex-con? What was he in for?"

"Well, he never did time. That's the only reason I hired him. Seems like he was the neighborhood peeping Tom. Some of the ladies on the block recognized him. He turned himself in because he thought they'd go easy and send him to juvvie, but that's where the little pre-vert was wrong. They charged him as an adult. I mean, he got probation, but still. Now it's on his permanent record. Little pre-vert." Alonzo chuckled to himself. "He says it was all a bum rap, and he didn't really do it. Course if you ask him what the real deal is, he just clams up."

Woody could feel the red heat of anger crawl up his neck and into his cheeks. He struggled to remain calm. "Say...you wouldn't happen to have Brian's address would you?"

Alonzo shrugged and began to thumb through a box of 3x5's. "Anything for the cops..."

XXXXXX

"I told you I didn't see anything. He had a mask on the whole time."

Jordan wearily rubbed her eyes as she pored over yet another mugshot book. It had been an hour, and the faces were beginning to blend together.

"I know, I know," Det. Carver reassured her. "But maybe you knew this guy. Or he knew you. Maybe he'd been in the building earlier that day. It can't hurt to look. Something might ring a bell."

Jordan shrugged and looked down at the book. "All right..." she exhaled and dropped her head. It was then that she saw him. Those eyes. She had felt those eyes on her before. She knew him. She had seen him in the building. When was it? A few days before the attack. It was _him_.

"That's him," she coldly. Carver turned to see Jordan stabbing at the picture with her index finger. "That's him. I've seen him before."

Santana appeared at the door then, breathless. "Excuse me, Det. Carver. It's about Det. Hoyt..."

Jordan's head spun around. "Woody? What's wrong?"

"He took off. About an hour ago. I just got a call from him. He says he knows where the Charlestown Rapist lives, and he's going after him."

"Jesus..." Lois stood from the conference table and headed for the door.

"Look, I called the guy at Alonzo HVAC," Santana started. Lois and Jordan exchanged puzzled glances. "It's a long story, but I know where Woody's headed."

Without another word, Carver and Santana raced down the hall. Jordan sat for a moment, not sure how to process the fact that Woody had gone after her attacker, then jumped from her chair. "Wait. I'm coming with you."

It was pointless, the women knew, to try and stop Jordan. She followed after them, leaving the mugshot book open to the page where Brain Weems' face had stared blankly up at her.


	10. Eyes of a Killer

The young red-haired man peered suspiciously out through the cracked front door at Woody's badge.

"Brian Weems?"

The young man's face fell with relief. "No. I'm Kevin Weems. Brian's my little brother. He's not here right now."

Woody licked his dry lips. He wasn't giving up easily. Not when he was this close. "Mind if I wait? I've got a few routine questions to ask."

There was a long pause. "I don't know..." Kevin said hesitantly. "Just for a little while."

He shut the door, and Woody could hear him sliding the chain lock. He opened the door just wide enough for Woody to slip through.

"Thanks. I thought maybe you were Brian. The red hair."

Kevin ran his hand self-consciously through his hair. "Yeah, we're both red-heads. My parents were red-heads, too." He waved his hand at on old photograph over the mantle of a ginger-haired family of four.

"You called him your little brother, but you look about the same age in that picture."

"I'm almost exactly a year older. Irish twins."

Kevin stood anxiously looking out the window. Woody smiled and tried to put him at ease. "Yeah. Same with me and my brother. So. You two live here together with your parents?"

"My parents are dead. Car accident eight years ago." Kevin said abruptly. "It's been just the two of us since then. We practically raised ourselves."

"I'm sorry to hear..."

"So, what did you want to talk to my brother about?" Kevin interrupted.

Woody shrugged amiably. "There was a girl murdered in one of the buildings where he did some repair work. I thought maybe he might have seen something..."

Kevin frowned. "Oh, I doubt it."

"What makes you say that?"

Kevin said nothing but moved purposefully to the center of the living room. This kid knew more than he was telling. Woody knew it. He scanned the room. There was a stack of textbooks and a backpack slung in one of the chairs.

"You in college?"

Kevin's face brightened. "Law school, actually. I skipped a few grades."

"I guess you don't want to hear my lawyer jokes, then, do you?" he snickered. Kevin was stone faced. Woody cleared his throat and went on. "That must be tough. Law school ain't cheap, from what I hear."

"I have a partial scholarship. Student loans. Brian covers the rest," he said nonchalantly.

"So, little brother is working his fingers to the bone while you go to law school," Woody said in mock outrage.

"Of course." There was a cold flatness to his voice that startled Woody. "Brian would do anything for me."

There was a long pause. Woody began to pace around the living room, taking in the photographs, the battered furniture. This was where the killer lived. He could feel it. He took long, deep breaths to maintain his composure.

"Is my brother a suspect?" Kevin asked suddenly. "Is he in trouble?"

Woody flashed him an artificial smile. _You don't even want to know what kind of trouble he's in._

"I just have some questions for him, really." It was the standard line, but it seemed to satisfy Kevin. He finally took a seat in an old armchair.

"I really don't know when he'll be back."

Woody glanced nervously at his watch. He should go back to the precinct and tell Carver what he had found out. "We'll just give him a few more minutes."

Woody continued to pace. Kevin's voice broke the silence.

"So, tell me about it. There was a murder, you say? I think I read about it. Over in Charlestown."

"Yes, that's right."

"I'm taking a course in criminal law this semester," Kevin explained. "I think that's where I'd like to practice. So, this killer. He _violates_ them. Doesn't he? But he killed this time. Am I right?"

Woody looked down at Kevin. His voice had grown strange, with an almost distant dreaminess.

"Yeah..."

"Those women must have felt so..._powerless._"

Woody spun around. It made sense now.

_Brian would do anything for me..._

It all happened in an instant. Kevin looked up into Woody's face with a dawning realization of horror. He jumped from the armchair as Woody reached for his gun. Kevin staggered forward in a vain attempt to flee, but Woody was there, blocking his exit. He pointed the gun with a trembling hand at the killer's head.

Kevin threw his hands up and slowly sunk to his knees.

"That's why I couldn't find your fingerprint in the system. Because _you've_ never been arrested. It was _you_ who was the peeping Tom, not Brian. You made Brian take the fall, didn't you?" Woody's voice shook with uncontrolled rage.

Kevin said nothing.

"How'd you two work it this time? Little brother goes in to do some repair work and makes copies of the keys so big brother can go in later and do his dirty work? Only it wasn't good enough just _watching_ this time, was it? You're not just a sick little pervert. You're a rapist. And a killer."

Woody took a step in toward Kevin.

"What are you going to do?" Kevin's voice was small and frightened.

"Will anybody really miss a rapist and a killer? And the world certainly doesn't need any more lawyers."

He placed the barrel of the revolver against Kevin's head.

"Woody..._don't._ Don't do it!"

It was Jordan, inching her way slowly into the room.

"Get out of here, Jordan. You don't want to see this."

"Don't do it! It's not worth it. Please, Woody." She inched closer to him. Her voice was thick with fear. "This is about _me_, Woody. This isn't about you. It happened to _me_. Believe me, I'd like to take that gun and do it myself, but I can't. I won't. And neither will you."

He paused. She thought for a moment he would lower his hand, but he did not. He took another step in, digging the barrel into the center of Kevin's forehead.

Her eyes snapped shut as she waited for the inevitable shot.

And then it was over. He took a step back, and his arm fell limply to his side.

Carver and Santana ran into the house, followed by a stream of uniformed officers.

Carver said something to Jordan and Woody while the officers cuffed Kevin Weems, but neither of them heard it.

They stood there, motionless, amid the chaos as the officers led the killer away.


	11. Small Steps

They sat in a booth across from each other at a diner around the corner from Woody's apartment.

"I think you should call him," Jordan said with a gentle firmness. "I think you should make an appointment."

Woody looked down at the phone number on the piece of paper that Jordan had just handed him. "Thanks. I will," he muttered and tucked the paper quickly in his wallet.

"Both Dr. Stiles and Dr. Brady recommended him."

Woody didn't respond. They both silently sipped at their coffee.

It felt so impersonal sitting here like this in a diner, but she had been determined to get him out of the house. He had taken a voluntary leave of absence from the force, and she knew that he had been sitting brooding at home, unshaven and unshowered.

He had walked into the police department after Kevin Weems had been arrested, set his badge and revolver on the captain's desk and walked silently away.

Publicly, he had been given much of the credit for bringing in a killer, and he deserved it. Privately, there where whispers around the department that the case had sent the kid from Wisconsin ever-so-slightly around the bend.

The truth wasn't quite that bad, but Jordan was proud of him for recognizing that he needed some time to step back.

She had always thought of him as being an ever-cheerful, happy-go-lucky type. She had been stunned that he had contained so much anger, and she could only wonder at its source. Perhaps someday, he could tell her. She hoped so.

"It might help to talk to someone, Woody," she finally added.

He threw up his hands with a resigned laugh. "Okay! Okay! I'll call him, Jordan. I promise."

She paused while the waitress refilled her cup. "Good. I'm glad. I don't want there to be this _thing_ between us."

He looked up at her with earnest eyes. "This doesn't change how I feel about you, Jordan. Not a chance. I told you that," he said quickly.

She found herself blushing. She thought it was the one thing that had been taken from her forever: the ability to feel desirable again. But it was coming back - slowly.

He reached his fingers across the table but stopped inches from where hers rested, unsure of whether or not the touch of his hand would be welcome. She picked it up and placed it against her cheek. His touch was warm and gentle, and she let it linger.

"I couldn't save my mother," he began in a small voice. "I couldn't save my father. No matter how good or smart or strong I was, I couldn't save them. And I couldn't save you. I should have walked you inside your apartment. I was just on the other side of the door when that animal was in there with you. I should have..." He stopped and looked away.

She squeezed his hand. "You can't always save the people you love," she said gently.

"I know." His voice broke. He had finally learned the hard and bitter lesson. He looked into her eyes with a small smile. They were two broken souls right now, but there was hope in that smile.

She was reluctant to break the spell of the moment. "Well...I've got somewhere I've got to be..." she said quietly.

"Yeah. I'm gonna finish my coffee, and then I guess I've got a phone call to make." He smiled weakly.

She rose from the booth and turned to go with a small wave. Then, impulsively, she slid into the booth next to him and kissed him once on the mouth, softly and quickly.

He smiled and brushed her cheek again with his fingertips. It was a small thing, but it was a beginning, and it would have to do. For now.

XXXXXX

"Well, this cold weather certainly agrees with you." Stiles smiled up at her. She took a seat and decided not to tell him that her healthy glow and flushed cheeks were from her meeting with Woody and not the brisk autumn air.

"Thanks," she said. "So, I guess you're here to decide whether or not I'm in danger of impaling one of my co-workers with the office supplies."

"And do you think you are?"

"Only if I haven't had my coffee yet." She smiled. "No, really. I'm...okay. Better than okay. I don't sleep with the lights blazing all night anymore." She rolled her eyes a bit. "I know. It sounds so insignificant."

"Not at all. What you went through certainly wasn't insignificant. Why should the steps toward recovery be considered insignificant? I think you should be proud of every step you take."

She smiled to herself. "Yeah. I am. I'm still seeing Dr. Brady. Man, I never thought I'd say this...but she referred me to a support group for victims of sexual assault, and it's been really helpful."

"_Survivors_, Jordan. The term these days is _survivors,_ not victims. The goal was to survive, and you did."

"Yeah, I guess I did." A slow smile spread across her face. She looked down at the small scar on her hand that had never quite healed.

_My battle wound,_ she thought to herself. It would be a badge of honor, a constant reminder of what she was.

A _survivor._


	12. Coda

_This is the last chapter. I tried to do something different with this one, make it a little more plot driven, play with my writing style a bit, and I'm not too sure it was successful, but thanks to those of you who stuck with it._

_Tracey thanks for the compliment! But if I really did write for CJ, Woody and Jordan would have hooked up a loooooong time ago!_

_XXXXXXXXXXXX_

_One year later..._

She swirled the wine in her glass and stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. Woody sat at the other end of the bed with her feet in his lap.

"You're not sleepy, are you?" he asked.

She smiled dreamily. "No. The fire was just making me kind of drowsy, I guess," she murmured back and shut her eyes.

It had been Woody's idea to come here. She had objected when he said he wanted to take her to a bed and breakfast for a weekend get-away, but as she lay stretched out in front of the fire on the canopy bed, she found herself enjoying the silly romance novel fantasy. It had been just what she needed.

"Because if you want to just go to sleep, that would be fine. I want you to be perfectly comfortable," he said with understanding, although she could detect the hint of disappointment in his voice.

He'd been very patient this last year. They had avoided the subject of their relationship while they were both in counseling. It was too soon. Then, he had returned to work, Kevin Weems' trial had ended, and as the weather warmed, they had begun a slow dance toward each other.

The emotional part had been surprisingly easy. It was what she wanted; she finally knew that, but the physical part had been difficult. There were the initial awkward fumblings, like eighth graders at a school dance.

But she could finally sense the feelings of desire spilling back into her, the way it feels to come into a warm room after being out in the cold air for a long time. It had not been taken away from her after all.

She had always been at ease with her own body and her sexuality, but the thoughts of the inevitable, ultimate physical intimacy terrified her. Her mind flashed back to the debacle of the night when she had invited Woody into her bed and then had scratched at him with a blinding panic.

She wanted it; she wanted that closeness with Woody. But what if it happened again?

Now, here they were together, her body warmed and relaxed from the wine and the fire. She smiled a slow smile and sat up.

"I don't want to go to sleep, Woody."

She leaned over and kissed him, long and inviting. When the kiss broke he searched her face.

"Are you sure, Jordan?" he asked with a whispered concern.

"I'm sure." Without breaking his admiring gaze, she slowly slipped off her shirt and then moved her fingers to his buttons.

He slid his arms around her bare back and pulled her in for another kiss. "You're shivering."

"It's okay. I'm just chilly, I guess."

"Jordan, we're sitting in front of a roaring fire," he said gently.

She looked away and ran her finger down the length of his arm. "I'm a little..._nervous_," she said in a small voice.

He kissed her softly. "It's okay. It's just me."

She nodded and nuzzled in next to him. "You're shaking, too, Woody."

There was a pause. "Am I?" He covered her shoulders with small kisses. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured. "If you're not sure about this..."

She put a finger to his lips and answered him by stretching back out on the bed and pulling him down to her.

It had been a difficult year. Perhaps the memories would always be there, but she felt as if her strength was finally returning to her after a long illness.

She smiled up at him. "No. I'm sure."

THE END


End file.
